Pamela Morsi (31 page)

Laron watched this futile effort for several
moments, curious. They were trapped. Victims of their fate. It was
not that there was no escape, he realized. It was that they could
not all escape. If one of them would sacrifice itself, become a
ladder for the other two, then those two could get free.

He watched and watched. But crabs weren't as
smart as humans. Or perhaps they simply did not know love. A man
who loved would sacrifice himself to free the others.

Sacrifice. That is what he planned to do. To
make a sacrifice of himself. Laron turned his gaze to the lowering
sun in the western sky. Texas. He was going to Texas to kill a man.
Not that he thought that killing Helmut Shotz was going to set them
free, make them all happy. He'd thought that when he'd left Prairie
l'Acadie, but he believed it no more. Days alone to ponder and
question had made it clear. He could kill the man, but he would
still not have what he wanted. Helga and the children could be
free, but they could not be his. They could have the safety of the
sand, but like the crab, he would remain trapped in the bucket.

The world was not so lawless that he could
commit murder and expect to get away free. Even a worthless man
like Helmut Shotz was allowed his life. Taking it would not be
permitted. Laron would be hunted down, caught, tried, executed. He
could not expect the deed to be forgotten.

Even if he managed to flee the scene, to get
away to avoid the capture, even if he slunk back to the secluded
safety of Prairie l'Acadie, he could never hide from such a
secret.

Helga would know. He would know. And
eventually the children would have to know, too.

The children, Karl, Elsa, and Jakob. Laron
closed his eyes as he thought of them, yearned for them. Did a man
love the children of his own loins more than he loved these? Laron
could not imagine it.

Helga wanted the children to grow up rightly,
to learn to do good and to be good. She wanted to teach them the
morals that would make their lives better. Teaching was done by
words, but more forcefully by example. She and Laron had cast off
their love for each other because it could not be shown within the
sanctity of marriage. How much more wrong would it be to devalue
the sanctity of life by killing a man who stood in their way?

The children would see only great violence
and great wrong in the people that they most loved. Their lives
would be forever torn. Divided always in their hearts between the
man who was a father to them and a murderer, and the man who
fathered them and was murdered.

Laron continued to gaze at the crabs.

"Sacrifice." He whispered the word silently
to himself.

He had planned to make himself a sacrifice.
Truly he could see no other option. Was it right or wrong? He no
longer knew. But he did know that he would forever be alone.

Aida Gaudet had never been more than a few
miles from her home. This day, the day of her wedding, she was
traveling to the very end of the Vermilion River, but this was no
wondrous and exciting wedding journey. This was a dangerous and
harrowing errand to keep a man from making a horrible mistake.
Strangely she felt not the slightest fear. A peace had settled upon
her as she'd seated herself on the flat bottom boards in the old
worn cypress skiff. It was going to be all right.

The day had been a long one. As evening
approached it was difficult to remember that just this morning
they had eaten the blueberry tart. Just this morning she had
almost, but not quite lost her innocence. And just this morning, as
she had insisted, Armand Sonnier had married her.

Now she ran headlong and heedless with him
and Madame Shotz in a race for Laron's honor and perhaps Monsieur
Shotz's life.

She glanced at Armand, standing at the back
of the boat. His poling stick moved with care and efficiency, being
both propulsion and rudder. He was a scholar, she thought. But
there was nothing of the sickly, studious fellow now. He was a man
on a mission. A mission to save his friend. And he was as strong
and ready and able as the task required. She felt proud to call him
husband.

The day had been fair and cool and the sun
had shone brightly, but hadn't warmed the nip in the air. Armand,
however, was drenched in sweat as he poled relentlessly, unwilling
to allow the speed of the river alone to pull them downstream. They
had made tremendously good time, he'd assured them. And now that
they were low in the river, the evening tide was pulling them
toward the sea in a very rapid pace.

They had good cause to be afraid. The tiny,
less than seaworthy skiff was all but flying over the top of the
water. An immersed log or a jutting rock just below the surface
could tip them into the water at any moment. And the nests of
gators got thicker and more numerous as they approached the
sea.

But strangely she was not fearful. She was
safe with Armand. She was safe with him, and sure. Anywhere that he
chose to go, she would follow him there. Anyplace that he took her,
she knew that he would give his life to protect her. And if the
fates decreed this to be her last day on earth, then she would go
to heaven at his side, content.

It was a strange sensation, this newfound
trust, this certainty. Was it merely that she had wed him? Or was
it because she loved, truly loved this man? Perhaps it was a
foolish, female fancy, but never had confidence and assurance
filled her so fully. He had seen her, truly her, not just the
outside but her silly thinking and her chipped tooth. He had seen
her and he had not turned away. It was a warm, comforting feeling
and one for which she was grateful.

She glanced up at him again. She loved Armand
Sonnier. He might not truly have wanted to marry her, but she
determined that she would never give him cause to regret it.

Across from her Helga Shotz anxiously scanned
the river and the bank. Aida was fearful for Laron, because Laron
was dear to her, but Helga loved Laron as she loved Armand. She
tried to imagine what she might feel if it were he who was in such
danger. What if it were Armand bent on ruining his life? The idea
twisted inside her, churning like nausea. She reached over to take
the German woman's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

"We will find him," she whispered. "I am sure
of it."

"Have you had a vision of it?" she asked.

Aida shook her head. The only vision she'd
seen had been the one of Laron cutting the shorn field. That one
was for Armand, if she could ever make him understand. She had no
comfort to offer Helga.

"But we will find him, I feel sure," she
said.

Helga nodded, but her face continued to be
lined with anxiety.

"Laron is a serious and thoughtful man," Aida
told her. "Occasionally he gets mistaken ideas, like the plan to
marry up with me. But once he has thought it through, he always
knows the right way to go. It will be the same this time."

Helga nodded hopefully. "I pray you are
right," she said and then shook her head with worry once more. "But
love clouds the judgment, does it not?"

Her words were an unwelcome reminder of the
morning in Armand's arms. She, loving him, had easily thrown
caution to the wind. It was only his clear-eyed good sense that had
prevailed upon them to resist sinful temptation. And she, loving
him, had forced him to take vows that perhaps he did not want to
make. Love did cloud the judgment, but she could not wish it away
and would not if she could.

Aida forced her thoughts back to Helga and
patted the woman's hand comfortingly. "Try not to worry," she
said.

Helga smiled. "You are too kind to me," she
said. "I have wronged you greatly and still you are kind."

Aida shook her head. "You have wronged no one
but yourself, I think," she answered. "Things will be fine, I know
that they will."

The woman gave her a wan smile, not
believing, but grateful for the words nonetheless.

"He said that you were pretty," she told
Aida. "I think he did not do you justice. You are very
beautiful."

Aida shrugged. "The river here is beautiful
and this country that we travel through. But I cannot love it. We
can admire what we see. But we can only love what we truly
know."

"Yes, you are right. And I can see that your
Armand does truly know your heart," she said.

Aida blushed with shame at her words. If only
what she said were the truth.

"Hold on to the sides of the skiff," Armand
ordered, startling them both from their reverie. "We are drawing
into the bay now and must put over before we are swept to sea."

A poling stick was only good when the water
was shallow enough to catch the bottom with it. Armand deliberately
kept close to shore where he had control, pulling with great
strength and determination against the relentlessness of the
sea.

"Once we get to the east shore," Armand told
them. "We will pull up until the tide turns. We need rest and food
anyway."

The two women clinging determinedly to the
tiny skiff could not help but agree. As they approached the beach
the danger lessened and the waves no longer seemed likely to tip
the boat.

"Look," Helga called out. "There is a fire on
the beach."

Aida followed her gaze and could see the
blaze and one man standing on the sand.

"This is a desolate area," Armand said. "It
could be an outlaw or pirate."

"It is Laron!"

Helga spoke the words with absolutely
certainty that belied the distance that separated them from the
man.

Aida shook her head disbelieving and then
spied the long, cypress pirogue pulled up on the beach. Someone had
braved the gulf waters in such an inconsequential craft?

"I think she's right."

Armand pulled toward the fire.

"Ho! The beach!" he called out in French.

The man in the distance turned toward them,
waved, and called back.

Orva Landry was smiling to herself as she sat
alone on the end of the dock in front of her house. She'd packed
her bag, everything that she would need, and calmly she waited.
Father Denis had taken the children to the Heberts. Jesper Gaudet
had been by to pick up his daughter and had been startled and
furious and near mad as a rabid dog to learn that not only had she
married without permission, she had run off with her new husband
without so much as a word.

Orva had finally made him see the sense of
all of it and was sitting, waiting, humming to herself with
pleasure. In the distance she already spied a pirogue headed in her
direction. She waited knowing with certainty that Jean Baptiste
would arrive shortly.

Beside her on the worn cypress planks was the
blueberry tart that she'd made him. She'd left it cooling in the
back of the cupboard, careful to keep it separate from the one
she'd made for her own supper. She certainly hadn't wanted to get
the two mixed up. This one contained a dangerous potion that she
personally had no wish to ingest.

Of course, there had been no danger of that.
Those naughty children, Armand and Aida, had eaten up every bite of
hers. She should have hid it equally as well, she thought.

She shook her head thinking of those two.
What a surprise they turned out to be. No matter how long she lived
a woman could never tell who would ultimately end up with whom.
Those two had been in the soup for a good long time now. All they
had needed was a little push.

That was what Jean Baptiste was getting
tonight, she thought. Just a little push.

"Heave to the boat, Jean Baptiste!" she
called out. "I'm going upstream with you."

"Bonsoir, Madame Landry!" the young man said,
surprised as he eased his pirogue closer to her dock. "It would be
my pleasure to take you up."

"What a day it has been," she said. "I
suppose you have heard."

"Just now," he said. "They say that my
brother has married Aida Gaudet and the two have gone down the
river with the German widow to find Laron Boudreau."

Orva nodded. "They should be all the way
downriver by nightfall," she answered.

Jean Baptiste maneuvered closer, ultimately
getting close enough to throw the old woman the rope. She deftly
tied the boat and stood, ready to board.

"I cannot think how such a thing has come to
pass," he told her.

The old woman chuckled.

"Strange times are brewing," she replied.

The young man helped her into the pirogue and
settled her in front before untying and easing off from the
dock.

"I made you this blueberry tart," she said,
indicating the dish beneath the white cloth.

"For me, Madame?"

"Just for you," she told him, nodding as she
pulled back the towel that covered it allowing him to admire the
treat.

Jean Baptiste's eyes widened with
appreciation. "It looks wonderful. I suspect I'd better save it for
after supper."

"Yes," she agreed. "Definitely you must wait
until after supper."

"Where are you headed tonight, Madame?" he
asked.

"Well, first to your place," she said. "Then
beyond. I aim to take your children upriver with me."

"My children?" He looked at her
questioningly.

"Your old Tante Celeste hasn't seen those
little ones in a month of Sundays. I heard the voices tell me that
tonight is the night to visit."

Jean Baptiste's expression turned grave.
Anytime the voices spoke of anyone, there was cause for
concern.

"You don't think the old woman is ill, do
you?" he asked. "Perhaps we should all go and spend time with her,
Felicite and I, too."

"No, indeed not," Orva insisted. "Felicite's
time is too near. And you'll need to be with her. I'm to go and
take your three little ones. You are to merely drop us off and
return to your wife. Jacque Savoy will bring us back tomorrow or
the next day."